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Overview
On a calm night off the Florida coast, a fishing boat vanishes without a trace. Something deadly is hiding in U.S. waters, and the Navy brass would rather bury the truth than face it.
It's Montgomery's war now. Brash and unconventional, Mike Montgomery is hardly regulation Navy. At his side, Diane Martinson, the Chief of Staff's wife--smart, tough...and his lover. Under his command, the USS Goldsborough--a WWII-era destroyer thundering toward a showdown of water and fire.
With the arrival of P.T. Deutermann--retired Navy captain, former arms control negotiator within the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and ex-commander of at destroyer squadron--today's naval thriller just climbed to a whole new level.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429922296 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2011 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 582 |
| Sales rank: | 160,740 |
| File size: | 703 KB |
About the Author
P. T. DEUTERMANN, a retired Navy captain, is the author of fourteen other novels and lives with his wife in North Carolina. His father was a destroyer division commander in the Pacific theater under Admiral Halsey.
P. T. DEUTERMANN is the author of many previous novels including Pacific Glory, which won the W. Y. Boyd Literary Award for Excellence in Military Fiction. Deutermann spent twenty-six years in military and government service, as a captain in the Navy and in the Joint Chiefs of Staff as an arms-control specialist. He lives with his wife in North Carolina.
Read an Excerpt
Scorpion in the Sea
By P.T. Deutermann
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 1992 George Mason University PressAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-2229-6
CHAPTER 1
FIVE DAYS EARLIER
10 April, USS Goldsborough (DD-920); At sea, Mayport Fleet operating areas
The radio messenger came through the pilothouse door, blinking rapidly in the sudden blaze of sunlight reflecting off the polished bronze sea.
"Officer of the Deck," he called out, squinting hard.
"OOD, aye," replied Lieutenant (junior grade) O'Connor from the port bridge wing.
"Got a priority action, Sir."
The OOD came in from the bridge wing, pushed his dark glasses up onto his forehead, and took the steel message board. He scanned the top message briefly, initialled it, and then walked across the pilothouse where Commander Johnston Michael Montgomery was trying to stay awake in the warm morning sunshine.
"Priority action, Captain," said O'Connor. "A little bit off the beaten path, too."
The Captain stretched, and sat up in his bridge chair. The chair protested. Mike Montgomery was a large man, with an oversized, straight nosed, nordic face, permanently ruddy complexioned from years at sea, with bushy white blond eyebrows and a shock of blond hair tinged with gray brushed straight back from a wide forehead. He wore the regulation Navy at-sea working uniform of wash khaki trousers and short sleeved khaki shirt, with the tarnished silver oak leaves of a Commander, USN, pinned to the points of his shirt collar, and a gold command at sea star on his right shirt pocket. A pair of hand-tooled, black leather sea boots rucked up the hem of his trousers. He had large hands and massively muscled forearms; the metal message board looked like a piece of paper in his hands.
"Everything we do is a little bit off the beaten path, Tim. Lemme see it."
The Captain's voice had a booming quality even when he was calm. He scanned the message. The rest of the bridge watch looked on with interest. The Bosun Mate of the Watch tried to get the radio messenger to let him in on the message. The messenger, a radioman who considered himself superior to all bosun mates, ignored him.
"Well, you're right, Timothy. This is indeed different. Get the XO up here, please. Quartergasket!"
The Quartermaster of the Watch stepped forward from his chart table. "Aye, Sir?"
"Plot this position, and give me a course at eighteen knots."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
The Captain turned back around in his chair, and reached for his lukewarm cup of coffee. Goddamn bosun mates were putting salt in it again; somebody had to talk to them. He knew the bridge watch was dying to know what was going on; he would let them eavesdrop when the Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Ben Farmer, arrived. He leaned back in the bridge chair.
Typical bullshit squirrel assignment for Goldsborough, he thought. The Coast Guard had forwarded a report from one of the Mayport fishermen claiming to have sighted a U-boat out on the edge of the Gulf Stream. Montgomery, a bachelor who lived in the fishing village of Mayport behind the Mayport naval base, knew most of the commercial fishermen personally. He could just see it. Some old fart like Christian Mayfield, stumbling out on deck in the morning twilight to piss over the side after a night-long session with Dr. James Beam and shaking with the predawn D.T.'s, sees a frigging U-boat. Right. Thinks he's back on the convoys. Lucky he didn't fall over the side in the excitement. And now Goldsborough, the one antique steam powered destroyer among all the new gas turbine powered frigates and destroyers in Mayport, would get to go out a hundred miles to the Gulf Stream and look for a U-boat. He sighed noisily. This was the kind of operational assignment which tended to confirm his suspicion that his career, just like Goldsborough's, was drawing to a close.
The Executive Officer appeared on the bridge from the doorway leading to CIC. Lieutenant Commander Ben Farmer was a chunky man, with a round face and a prematurely gray head of hair.
"Yes, Sir, Captain. Quartermaster called me and said we have to look for a — submarine?" The bridge watch team members pricked up their ears while trying to appear as if they were not eavesdropping.
"Yeah, XO. Another Weird-Harold mission for the Goldy-maru. One of the shrimp boats skippers called the Coast Guard on the Marine radio, says he saw a U-boat, gave a position. Group Twelve wants it investigated."
The Exec scanned the message. "But this was, hell, twenty-four hours ago," he complained. "Yesterday morning. That's a pretty big time-late. We were supposed to go in tonight. A hundred miles out, a hundred miles back, and some search time, we're looking at another day in the opareas."
"You broka-da-code, XO. I sense the slick claws of J. Walker Martinson, Chief of Staff to the Lord High Admiral George T., behind this little trip."
The quartermaster interrupted. "Sir, we need 085 to get to the original sighting posit."
"Very well. Mr. O'Connor, 085 at eighteen knots, please."
"Aye, aye, Sir." O'Connor gave the orders to the helm and lee helm. There was a jangle of engine order telegraph bells, and moments later Goldsborough swung her aging 4000 tons of steel around to the east and headed for the Gulf Stream. A light breeze began to stream through the pilothouse, rustling the charts on the chart table and stirring the general fug of cigarettes and stale coffee.
The Captain crumpled his paper coffee cup, and pitched it through the bridge wing door over the side. "XO, make an announcement to the crew that we're going out to investigate an unidentified submarine sighting report, and that our return to port will probably be delayed until tomorrow."
"Aye, aye, Sir." Farmer stepped closer, and said in a low voice, "Do you really believe that they saw a real submarine?"
The Captain shifted his large frame in the chair.
"No, XO. I don't. And what's more, if Group Twelve thought it was a real sighting, they wouldn't be sending us — they'd get one of the new Spruance class guys underway, send a real ASW ship out to take a look. But, what the hell; it beats boring holes in the ocean doing CIC non-maneuvering tracking exercises."
The XO squinted at the message again. He needed glasses, but refused to get a pair.
"Yes, Sir. I guess so," he said. "We'll have to hold an ASW brief this afternoon, say, 1330. If we're gonna do this thing, we'll need to post the blue and gold ASW teams. That's four on-four off watches, until we give it up. They say how long we're to look for this — er, U-boat?"
"Nope. So I'll mess with it all night, and then we'll do a Unless Otherwise Directed message and come the hell in. We've gotta get these boilers off the line; both of 'em are blowing steam, and I want to get those HP drain valves unscrewed by the end of next week so we can still go on the Fleet exercise."
The Exec nodded. "I'll tell Ops to file a new moverep."
"OK, XO."
The Captain sat back in his chair. The bridge cooled off noticeably as the ship picked up to eighteen knots and headed seaward. The bridge watch talked quietly among themselves about the sudden ASW mission. The word quickly spread through the ship, as the phone talkers chattered on their sound powered telephones to the lookouts and the main engineering spaces.
Mike Montgomery had been in command for almost two years. His selection for destroyer command had been exciting; his assignment to command Goldsborough had been something of a disappointment. Goldsborough was a twenty-seven year old, all-gun destroyer, armed with three automatic five-inch bore naval rifles, antisubmarine torpedoes, and even an ancient depth charge rack on the stern, courtesy of a senior admiral's pet project to get depth charges back into the fleet. She had four high pressure steam boilers which could drive her at thirty two knots if everything in the main spaces stayed steam-tight, which rarely happened. From the waterline up, she presented the classic lines of a large, modern destroyer, although her ability to defend herself against modern jet aircraft had long ago been eclipsed by high performance anti-ship missiles. Her Achilles heel was the elderly steam propulsion plant, compounded by an aging hull. Most of her class had been decommissioned when maintenance costs had begun to overrun operational capability. Goldsborough was now the sole remaining steam-powered destroyer based at the Mayport naval base, surrounded by the newer gas turbine driven Spruance class destroyers, which, at 8000 tons, were twice her size and one-third her age.
Because of her age, Goldsborough had been taken off the deployment list, which meant that she did not go overseas with the carrier groups on their six month deployments anymore. She stayed home and took part in fleet exercises and other training evolutions in the waters off Florida and occasionally in the Caribbean. She had inherited the role of semi-permanent duty destroyer, which meant that she was on call for all sorts of pop-up missions, like this one.
Mike had long ago realized that not being able to take his ship on deployment meant that he had become a marginal prospect for promotion to full Captain, USN. The selection boards for Captain paid a great deal of attention to fitness reports written by carrier battle group commanders on their destroyer skippers, especially during deployment operations overseas. On the other hand, Goldsborough was much sought after as an assignment by the enlisted men, whose promotions were dependent more on time in service and competitive examination than on deployments. For many, whose wives had found good jobs in the area, not having to go overseas for six months at a crack was as close as the enlisted could get to a homesteading situation and still be on regular sea duty.
Duty on Goldsborough was pleasant enough. The base at Mayport, placed at the mouth of the St. Johns river, near Jacksonville, Florida, was small enough to be friendly and personal. There were only two admirals, and one of those was usually deployed overseas. Career Navymen understood that the importance of petty regulations varied directly with the number and seniority of admirals present, and thus Mayport was a pleasantly laid-back naval station, especially when compared to the huge fleet operating bases up north in Charleston and Norfolk.
"It'll take us until 1530 to reach the datum, Captain," said the Quartermaster, interrupting his reverie. He refocused on the submarine problem.
"Very well. OOD, we'll have an all-officers at 1330 for ASW action brief. I'm going below."
"Aye, aye, Sir. I'll get the word passed."
The Captain stood down from his chair, and stretched. The sea was absolutely flat calm, and its surface had gone from bronze to silvery gray in the haze of a typical late spring day off the Florida coast. In the distance the surface of the sea was dotted with small fishing boats, cabin cruisers, and the occasional commercial fisherman or shrimper with nets over the side. On the horizon, one of the massive, 60,000 ton Toyota car-carriers was getting larger as she closed in on the entrance to the St. Johns river for the run up to the port of Jacksonville.
Mike wondered at the thought of a fishing boat Skipper seeing a U-boat. Most of the Skippers he knew would not recognize a submarine if they fell over one, and some were often not sober enough to know they had bumped into something. As a bachelor, he had spent enough evenings in the back bar at Hampton's Fish House with the fishermen to know something about their drinking habits. This was undoubtedly going to be a major waste of time. He let himself through the door at the back of the pilothouse and headed below to his cabin.
CHAPTER 2Washington, D.C., The Defense Department Photoanalysis Center, 10 April
Maryann Winters was fuming. Her boss, Harry Johnson, had groped her again, and she was getting sick and tired of it. It had been the usual scene — she standing over the optics of the analyzer table, which unfortunately pointed her curvaceous bottom at whomever might come into the lab, and Harry ambling over, ostensibly to see what she was working on. Maryann was twenty-six, single, and shapely, and Harry always managed to stand close enough to brush her backside with his right hand when she was running the photo analyzer. He had this really terrific technique: bend over with her, let his hand wander, and breathe heavily near her left ear. Unfortunately, he was a smoker, and his breath stank of stale cigarette smoke. He undoubtedly thought that he was being Mr. Cool. Maryann was ready to file a sexual harassment grievance against him with the Civil Service Board.
Rhonda from the adjoining central files office had suggested that she try stepping back on his instep with her high heels, which was how Rhonda had cured Harry when he played touchy-feely with her. Maryann, however, was determined to inflict some real retaliation through civil service channels, if she could only find a way to prove it. Her boyfriend, who worked for the Naval Investigative Service, had suggested putting some purple hands powder on the back of her skirt. This, he explained, was the invisible stuff they used to sprinkle bait, such as a wallet, for thieves. A thief would handle the wallet, and after a day or so his hands would turn purple, exposing him. Maryann was thinking seriously about trying it.
She bent down to look once more into the analyzer optics. The picture was from one of the new RQ-9X birds, and it was a sweep of the southern Mediterranean littoral. She loved doing the satellite imagery. This satellite swept across all the countries of northern Africa before movingup across the middle and eastern portions of the Soviet Union, the principal target. The Mediterranean pass was targeted to update North African naval and air orders of battle, but since Maryann worked in the naval section, she performed analysis only on the harbors and bases. She scrolled the image from left to right, duplicating the satellite's pass across its terrestrial footprint. She consulted her list of target installations, and then moved the crosshairs to stop at Ras Hilal, right on the coast, and initiated magnification. Counting carefully, she recorded the medium and small patrol boats, and noted that the six Foxtrot class submarines were still in place. Stepping away from the optics, she punched in a code on a computer terminal, and hit Enter. She bent back down to the eyepiece. In view now was the same pass, at the same coordinates, taken one month ago and superimposed on the current one, a standard photointerpretation technique used to detect changes. She did the count again, finding one more patrol boat in the current frame. She entered that change into the computer, thereby automatically updating the appropriate naval order of battle file.
Harry Johnson came back into the analysis room, and Maryann turned her head to see who it was, almost defensively, but his hands were full of files this time. He nodded to her, smiling as if they shared some intimate secret, and left through the side office door. Just you wait, jerk, she thought. She went back to the analysis. Entering three more codes, she turned on the infra-red display, which depicted the targets in black-white contrast as a function of heat differentials. The satellite was a fancy bird: it shot visuals and infrared at the same time. She looked back into the optics, and found something unusual. Two submarines tied up across from one another at one pier were different. One showed the normal calico tones of hot and cool patterns distributed over the length of the hull. The other showed completely homogeneous heat, from one end to the other, as if the sub had been put in an oven and brought up to one uniform temperature.
That's weird, she thought. She called up the previousmonth's image, and found that both subs moored to that pier had similar calico hot and cold patterns. OK, so we've got a change, but what's it mean, she wondered. She knew, and suddenly dreaded, the next step. She was supposed to tell Harry. She thought about it for a moment. If she called Harry now, after he caressed her bottom this morning, he would think she was interested, which was the last thing she wanted to have happen. Old zoo dirt breath getting encouraged.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Scorpion in the Sea by P.T. Deutermann. Copyright © 1992 George Mason University Press. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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